


England, All Covered In Snow

by LiamNeesonNightmare



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Fluff, Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, It's a Christmas fic folks, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Snow!, hold on to your butts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiamNeesonNightmare/pseuds/LiamNeesonNightmare
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, the first after the Armageddon What Wasn't, and Aziraphale has planned a special night for he and his demon friend. Dinner, some wine, some lively conversation no doubt, all par for the course. What's making the angel anxious is the parcel he has placed deliberately nonchalantly against the large fern he has in place of a Christmas tree.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	England, All Covered In Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [midnightstarlightwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightstarlightwrites/gifts).



> Written for the wonderful @midnightstarlightwrites 
> 
> Happy GO Holiday Swap Midnight!

Aziraphale is waiting for Crowley. Not a new phenomenon, certainly. Crowley invented being fashionably late, and as such he has it down to a tee. Aziraphale is used to waiting. For his friend, he would wait forever. The being nervous while waiting, however, is much more rare.

It's Christmas Eve, the first after the Armageddon What Wasn't, and Aziraphale has planned a special night for he and his demon friend. Dinner, some wine, some lively conversation no doubt, all par for the course. What's making the angel anxious is the parcel he has placed deliberately nonchalantly against the large fern he has in place of a Christmas tree. 

"Oh that?" he practices saying, "Oh that's nothing, just something I picked up, dear fellow. After all, tis the season of giving!"

He tries for casual, but he doesn't quite pull it off. 

Aziraphale has always been a fan of Christmas. Not a surprise, of course, what with the whole Holy Host situation, but then the holiday has changed quite drastically through the years. Many angels wouldn't even be able to tell you what a bauble was, let alone where you'd put it. But Aziraphale finds it all so wonderful! The lights, the songs, the general air of good will. He tries to ignore what Capitalism has done, the bright red Coca-Cola Santa, and tries to focus instead on the people being kind to each other. After all, Jesus was most definitely born in mid-April, and he should know, he was there for it. 

This will not be his first Christmas with Crowley, not by far, but its somehow shaping up to be the most important one. Since the Armageddon that wasn't, the two ex-nemeses had been spending more time together. More than normal, more than ever before, and still less than Aziraphale would like. 

He has seen subtle but remarkable differences in their interactions with one another. Crowley is somehow looser, his smiles come more easily, laughter often close behind. He is more affectionate as well, and receptive of Aziraphale's affections in return. Their time together has become so much sweeter. Crowley turns up at all hours of the day and night, with new tastes and sounds, new adventures to go on. The times Aziraphale considers to be most precious are those blustery rainy days where they decide to stay in. Drink some wine, miracle up some appetizer, and talk for hours on end. Even the simplest of activities have taken on a whole new light since they've unshackled themselves from their old jobs.

The Angel, for very many centuries, was oblivious to his own obliviousness. He took Crowley's friendship for granted, almost. But he is aware now, in a very real way, of his feelings for the demon, what shape and form they take, have always taken, behind his blessed denial. Since the Armageddon What Didn't Go, and without the threat of falling, Aziraphale has been able to reflect on his inner most desires without guilt. 

And said desires all happen to revolve around one very snarky, cantankerous and devilishly handsome demon.

He has spent years now wondering how he could have been so blind. His first instinct upon hearing Crowley's voice has always been to feel pure joy, and the slightest brush of their fingers makes his mortal heart do things that feel incredibly unhealthy. Aziraphale finds himself fixated on the faintest of pink blush on Crowley's cheeks when he is flustered, the way his mouth turns down in a scowl when he's angry. 

He daydreams, like a silly school girl, about reaching out and brushing his fingers through Crowley's hair. (But then, Aziraphale has often considered silly school girls to be the smartest of the human population as a whole.) Once, the demon came up behind him while he was restoring a first edition of Persuasion and placed his elegant hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, leaning over him to get a better look. The angel was so emotionally shocked by the move that he promptly forgot what he was doing and sat stunned until Crowley wandered away. 

Aziraphale likes the soft touches, the tender glances, he craves them and collects them in his mind. But what he wants is more, harder, he wants touches with intent. He wants to hold, and be held. And he suspects, and has suspected for a while, that Crowley may in fact feel the same. When he thinks about it, it feels like soft skin brushing in a burning church.

Crowley, while more comfortable than he can ever remember him being, still has his tense moments, and they come seemingly randomly. Aziraphale can feel an expectation weighing on him sometimes, when he watches out of the bookshop window, one knee drawn up on the windowsill to support his chin. The angel knows he is watching, always, waiting for an attack which may never come. And he is grateful. Never in his life has he felt more safe than when Crowley gets that determined, grumpy look on his face. 

While more than happy with the status quo, Aziraphale is haunted by the idea that they could be...more. That he could ease that grumpy look, release the tension in Crowley's shoulders, be the person Crowley turns to with his hopes and fears. The question is, how? How do you move forward after 6000 years of friendship? 

Aziraphale, new to this whole romantic malarkey, resolves to fall back on his gentlemanly manners. Courtship, in it's proper form, has always intrigued him. Step one is complimenting your intended, and while Aziraphale isn't sure how Crowley will take it after his aggressive but somehow exhilarating reaction in the rectory, he is determined to try.

"Crowley my dear," he says one day, just after Halloween while sitting in the back room of the bookshop, "do you know that I think you looked rather fetching with your long hair?"

"What??" The demon sits up from his sprawl, a spectacular crease forming between his eyebrows. "Are you... Are you saying you don't think I suit it now it's short?"

"Oh no! I meant, um, rather, that you have a face that suits the longer styles. Although!" Aziraphale flings a hand out, as if he can physically stop Crowley from reaching the wrong conclusion, even though Crowley hasn't moved a muscle, "You do also suit this shorter cut as well, of course."

A disaster. A catastrophe. A ridiculous misfire. The demon is certainly flustered, and yes there is a dusting of pink on his cheeks, but this is not quite what he had intended.

Crowley seems frozen in place. Maybe he is so angry with me, Aziraphale thinks, that he will discorporate me on the spot and I will no longer have to be embarrassed. 

"Crowley are you..quite alright?"

"Ahd, wa? Uh, what?" Crowley seems to physically shake himself, and once again is the epitome of cool, calm and collected. "Yes, fine, whatever. Duly noted, angel. Now are we going for dinner in that new Thai place or are you just going to stand around being Godly all night?"

Aziraphale, ever the soldier, tries again. 

"Crowley, my friend," he says one day, while walking home from a late lunch at the Ritz, "do you know that I find you rather funny, for a demon." That last bit wasn't part of the plan, but he panicked. 

"Ooof, ouch Angel, wow," Crowley clutches his heart as if mortally wounded. "Are you saying I'm not as funny as some of the heavenly host?"

"What? Oh no, of course not! You know what the humour up there is like. I did tell you about Sandalphon's War and War moment."

"Yeah, which is why that hurt so much." He laughed, but it didn't seem entirely genuine, to Aziraphale. "So what you're saying is I'm not as funny as humans?"

"Well I wouldn't know what, I rarely understand their humour, so filled with cultural references as it is. But no what I was trying to say was-"

"Was that I'm funny in comparison to my co-workers, who consider torturing, maiming and sinning to be a jolly funny old time? What a compliment." Crowley huffs some then and walks off, but not far enough that Aziraphale can't catch up to him with more apologies. 

Oh dear. This really isn't going the way Aziraphale wants it to. But faint heart never won fair..demon. Aziraphale is determined, he will succeed! Madam Unctuous the Pious' Guide to Courtly Ways has never let him down before!

Then, one fateful morning, a week before their Christmas Eve meeting, Aziraphale bites the proverbial bullet. They're in the angel's tiny, cramped kitchen, used for little more than pretense and keeping his fridge full of leftovers. 

Crowley is sitting on the counter, feet swinging and playing with a dusty corkscrew, while Aziraphale is most of the way inside a cupboard beside him, looking for some relish.

"I swear I had a jar in here not too long ago, it was a wonderful little concoction from that market by the river."

Crowley hums, puts his head around the cupboard door for a second, "And when you say 'not too long ago' angel, do you mean one year ago or..twenty?"

Aziraphale flashes him a disgruntled frown and Crowley smirks good naturedly, swinging back out of view again.

Eventually Aziraphale finds it, producing the jar with triumph, only for Crowley to gleefully point out that the sell by date, well... the sell by date could be a father itself by now. Of a lot of tiny little sell by dates. 

Aziraphale can't even be annoyed at his smugness, because the glow he has about him, here in the angel's kitchen, makes Aziraphale want to keep him here forever. He really was sinfully endearing. Aziraphale never wants to forget a second of the time they've spent together, but is keenly aware that it still hasn't been enough. 

"Crowley," he says softly, getting Crowley's attention in the shape of a raised eyebrow while he continues to make the corkscrew do jumping jacks, "I feel it is important to tell you that.. you are my very best friend, and I would be lost without you."

He says the last with all seriousness, hands by his side, back straight with determination. This is a compliment which must work, for what better one could there be?

Therefore he is quite surprised when Crowley reacts with a loud bark of laughter. 

"Angel, I saved you from food poisoning that you can't even get, I'm hardly your hero!"

Aziraphale, shocked, gets a bit flustered and doesn't think when he replies,

"Why, yes you are! I'd be dead ten times over if you weren't there to help me!" Oh dear. That may have been a bit much, he thinks. 

Crowley raises his sardonic eyebrow even higher, "A hero?"

"Yes."

"Me??"

Aziraphale, seeing the teasing smile on Crowleys face, walks directly in front of him and gestures, getting into the swing of it. 

"Yes. You're a regular Flashman. My own personal Batfleck, or whatever he's called now."

Crowley laughs appreciatively then, a rare, real laugh, the kind that brings small tears to the corners of his eyes. The motion sends his body forward and just for a moment, their foreheads touch. Their bodies have made more contact than this before, plenty of times, and yet Aziraphale suddenly finds it very hard to breathe. The tenderness he feels, washing in gentle waves over him from Crowley's still lingering chuckles, fills him up to the brim with powerful, calamitous emotion. This feeling swells until it can't fit inside his human corporation any longer, and every child in a 6 street radius bursts into delighted laughter. 

That's much more like it, he thinks. 

Aziraphale has had many, many lovely moments in his life. This may just be one of the loveliest. Because he finally has reason to hope. Maybe he isn't too late. Maybe Crowley really could like him, in this new, more powerful and romantic way. Maybe he could be the one to make Crowley happy. 

That's when he decides to move on to step two of his plan. Courtship, proper courtship, requires gifts, yes? And with Christmas coming up, the angel has the perfect excuse. 

He ponders all week over what to get for a supernatural being that can miracle themselves whatever they want. A plant, though he has so many. A rare, exotic and poisonous plant, possibly. He considers some new fashion accessory, but thousands of years of friendship has taught him that he and Crowley do not have the same ideas on what constitutes as fashion. He likes Crowley's clothes, yes, but he likes them on him, is the important point. 

Finally he decides on a scarf. It's large, warm and exceedingly cosy, and it's rich green colour reminds him of the sheen of Crowley's snake form. Oh, he does hope Crowley likes it. 

Back then to waiting. Aziraphale is so full of anticipation he doesn't know how much longer he can oh!! The doorbell!! In his rush to answer the door Aziraphale fails to wonder why the demon would be ringing the doorbell at all.

"Crowley!" he exclaims, with a grin as big and bright as any he's ever produced. Quite rightly too, for the sight that meets him is heavenly. 

"Hullo Aziraphale. Are you going to invite me in?" Crowley stands in the doorway holding a bouquet of the most unusual flowers in one hand, a bottle of what the angel suspects to be extremely expensive wine in the other, and a mischievous smile on his face. His hair, which has been getting longer every time the angel sees him, is partly tied up in a small ponytail, and his sunglasses are half way down his nose, giving Aziraphale a chance to see them lit up with his smile. 

His previous planned casual air evaporates entirely. Crowley brought him flowers! Globes of Amaranth, threads of Primroses and deep red Carnations. An odd combination indeed, but all the more meaningful that the demon chose them himself. He invites Crowley in with rushed speech an then, entirely overcome, he runs directly to the present and lifts it excitedly, turning around a thrusting it in Crowley's face. 

"Merry Christmas!" 

"Why Angel, you shouldn't have." The demon's attempt to look disgruntled is half-hearted at best, and he switches quickly to looking shocked and happy. He wastes no time at all ripping open the wrapping paper and pulls the scarf out with a flourish. 

Crowley says...nothing. He stands, stock still, and stares at the scarf. Aziraphale, suddenly nervous at the ensuing silence, starts stammering. "Well dear boy I hope you like it, I know it isn't exactly your colour but it reminded me of you so much that I, well if you don't like it you can always.."

"I like it, angel." Crowley cuts in. 

"Really??"

"I do." The demon looks up at him then, and they share a loaded glance. Eventually a comfortable silences envelops them, and Aziraphale is pleased. He considers the gift a roaring success. 

Their dinner feels more familiar than any before. They talk, they laugh, Crowley even eats some of the turkey to Aziraphale's great delight. It's the best Christmas Aziraphale can remember having, and he doesn't know how it could get any better. 

After dinner Aziraphale is delighted by Crowley's suggestion that they go for a walk. It's not usual for the demon to suggest such a thing, especially given how cold it was outside, but Aziraphale accepted the invitation with glee. 

As they're leaving Crowley grabs his new scarf, and the suggestion of a smile appears on his face. Aziraphale has never seen him hold something with so much tenderness before, and watches with a fluttering heart as the demon wraps it once, twice, three times around his neck, before glancing up at the angel. 

"Well come on then Aziraphale, before it gets dark." He says, softly. 

They walk aimlessly, savouring the sharp cold air, the gentle snowfall. Aziraphale has a fright when he, forgetting for a second that he is not mortal, slips on a patch of packed snow. Crowley catches him, however, hand on hand, and rights him within moments. 

"Careful there Angel, don't hurt yourself!" Comes his snark filled admonishment. 

Even though Crowley is the coldest being he's ever come across, physically, Aziraphale can feel the heat of him through their gloves. His fingers tingle for a long time after they let go. The angel thinks maybe there is something very wrong with him.

Crowley's head is 60% scarf, with only his sunglasses peeking over the top of them, his ponytail almost completely eclipsed at the back. The talk about small, insignificant things, plans for next week, next year. Aziraphale, full of wonderful food and the simple pleasure of walking beside his friend, is none-the-less still agitated. As they turn into St James park, lock on the gate miraculously open, they lapse into silence, giving Aziraphale time to ponder. 

He thought giving the gift would be enough to show his affection, but the tender look on Crowley's face as he gazed down at his present has filled the angel with a need, a most selfish and sinful need, to have Crowley look at him that way too. He wonders if he should tell him, say something else, another compliment maybe. Something that might, if Aziraphale is very, incredibly lucky, cause Crowley to say something similar in return.

As the sun sets on London their surroundings glow. Light from the street lamps refracting off snowflakes, filling the space of the park with an otherworldly radiance. 

They reach the bandstand when the lights are at their brightest, when the world is at its quietest. In the middle they stop, as if by an unspoken agreement, and watch the snow fall around them, protected as they are in their shelter. Beside him Crowley's pale fingers twitch, and Aziraphale can't help reaching out and catching them. They're ice cold, and there's a fine tremor running through his skin that Aziraphale can feel now. 

"My dear, but you're freezing where you stand! Come now we should head back."

Suddenly, as if startled, Crowley snaps his hands away.

"No no, don't worry about it Angel, I'm fine."

He's flustered, for some reason. Aziraphale can't think as to why, unless..

A calm settles over Aziraphale. Whether inspired by the quiet, soft crunch of their feet against the snow, or the way Crowley is looking at him, he doesn't know. 

Crowley starts to walk away again, hands stuck resolutely in his pockets. 

Aziraphale stops him with a soft: "I say, my dear. I wonder....well. I never did apologise, for those things I said to you right near the end."

Crowey stops a couple of steps ahead, but doesn't turn.

"There is no excuse for how I treated you. I was scared, yes, but being scared does not excuse cowardice. There was so much happening, so much to worry about, but I suppose...I suppose I still had faith. My failure was putting my faith in anything but you. I don't think I can apologise enough for making you believe, even for a second, that I didn't want to be with you. You didn't deserve that."

Crowley is still terrifyingly silent, shoulders hunched and staring at the ground. This is it, Azirahale thinks. This is the moment, there's no going back. He takes a big breath and prays.

"The last time we were here you asked me to do something, you made a proposition of sorts. And I'm afraid I, like always, gave the wrong answer. I was wondering, well.... I want you to ask me again."

At this Crowley finally turns. Stares. He's leaning at a 25 degree angle, eyes shadowed by his sunglasses and the glint of a street lamp behind him. There is still snow dusting his red hair. He says nothing at all for one whole minute. 

Then he unwraps his scarf, slowly and deliberately. Holding it in one hand he runs the other down is face, like he is weary, like he suddenly feels every last second of his existence. He tilts his head back, as if he's staring at the stars through the roof of the bandstand. 

"You know, Angel," he takes one swaying step forward, still looking up, "I didn't particularly want to go to Alpha Centurai, then."

"I know."

Another step. A drunken sailor. He brings his head back down, gaze straight ahead, eyes still, always frustratingly covered by his glasses. 

"And I don't particularly want to go there now."

"I know." A small, tremulous smile.

Another step, right in front of Aziraphale now. He tilts his head sideways, like a bewildered puppy. Despite his noodley posture he seems tense, like a taut bowstring.

"But you still want me to ask you again?"

"I do, my dear Crowley. If you would be so kind." Softer than cotton, low and gentle, full of emotion and shaking with it. 

Crowley blows out all his breath in one big sweep, cocks an eyebrow. Shrugs his shoulders, the height of feined indifference, but the clench of his jaw gives him away. 

"Angel. Would you like to run away with me?"

A smile, large and beaming,

"Yes, I rather think I do."

Crowley loses all tension, just collapses in on himself, head falling to his chest. His scarf is clenched in his fist, knuckles whiter than white. For a second Aziraphale is worried, very worried, but he gives Crowley his space. If this was a mistake, he will let Crowley decide the terms of fixing it.

Then with a speed that can only be unnatural, Crowley's hands come up and grab Aziraphale's lapels, tight. The demon pushes him, slow but with incredible force, first immediately left and then straight ahead, pushing the angel backwards into one of the stone pillars. He stands, arms full outstretched, hair hanging over his face so that Aziraphale cannot see his expression. He's still holding the scarf in his shaking hand. 

"You have to say it." The words come out strangled, through clenched teeth. 

"Say what?" The Angel's inability to breathe has nothing to do with fear but also everything, everything to do with fear. 

"You have to....I need to hear you say it. If I get this wrong again Angel, if I see something that isn't there, if I read too much into this one more time I can't....."

The demon, whole body trembling now, slowly leans forward until his damp forehead is rested on Aziraphale's heaving chest. 

"I don't think I could survive it." He looks up then, and Azirphale almost wishes he hadn't. The expression on his face is unlike anything Aziraphale has ever seen before. He is clearly, starkly terrified. 

"This, this has all been amazing, more than I ever could have....I'm happy, with what we have, you don't have to.. you don't have to lie to me Aziraphale. You don't need to coddle me, or pity me. You have no idea what it would do to me if you...." He gasps, stutters his way through speech until Aziraphale cuts him off. 

"Crowley." Aziraphale gulps. He too is frightened, but this is important. "My dear. What do you need to hear?"

Crowley takes a long, trembling inhale, and then he blows it all out, slowly. When he next speaks, his voice cracks. 

"Do you mean that you would run away with me as a friend, a companion, someone your fraternize with or...."

"Or." It isn't a question, but Crowley continues anyway.

"Or do you'd run away with me as more than that? More than friends who see each other once or twice a century? Do you..."

"I do, Crowley."

The demon gasps, all shock, all tremulous hope. He seems stunned silent, mouth gaping with pants, sunglasses falling slowly down his nose. 

"While I do hope that I will retain your friendship, which means more to me than I can say," Aziraphale is finding it harder to speak, emotion choking his throat, "I want...I want to love you, Crowley. I am in love with you, and I wish to be with you for the rest of my life, of our lives...forever."

"Aziraphale...." Crowley looks so uncertain, so scared, so unlike his usually snarky, self-confident self. 

"Crowley my dearest, I have my excuses for why I denied my feelings for so long, but none of them were good enough to be worth it, worth putting you in this much pain. I didn't know how much you were hurting, you have to believe me. But I won't, I can't deny my feelings any longer. I love you, my darling, I do. I'm sorry I took so long, but I'm yours now. If you'll have me. 

"IF?" The word seems to explode out of him, all incredulousness. Ah, there's the snarky demon he knows so well. 

Crowley is now leaning so close that is no effort at all, really, to lean forward and kiss him. It would almost take more effort not to. It's a short sharp spark of pure bliss, before Aziraphale loses his nerve and realises it probably isn't done to just kiss people without their permission. Madam Unctuous wouldn't have it. He pulls away.

"I am sorry my dear, I should have.."

He is interrupted by a grunt, a hggkk and then a much more decisive kiss in reply. Crowley tastes like amber, like spices and sand. He tastes like the first snowflakes of winter, fresh on your tongue. Crowley's hands leave Aziraphale's lapels to wrap around his waist, grasping and slightly desperate. The angel slides his hands up, one to rest on Crowley's delicate jaw and the other to tangle with his damp, wonderfully wet hair. Aziraphale can feel life in this kiss, can feel worship in Crowley's clinging hands, and above all love in every atom and particle between them. 

They kiss for an age and more, both unwilling to stop now that they've finally started, until Aziraphale realises that Crowley is still cold. Uncomfortably, worryingly cold, Aziraphale can feel it rolling off him. Silly serpent. 

"Crowley you're freezing." he says, pulling back slightly, "We really should go back."

"Shut up Angel. You can keep me warm. You always do."

Crowley has somehow slithered an ice cold hand up Azirphale's jumper, and he should probably care, but the feel of Crowley's soft lips, having him so close he can feel his heartbeat...it's worth it. 

Aziraphale chuckles, more happy than he thinks he can bear. "So you'll take me to far distant stars but you won't take me back to my house?"

Crowley leans back then, and stares at Aziraphale with wide eyes, like he were but a mere mortal, faced with the angels true corporation.

"Anywhere Angel. I'll take you anywhere, anytime at all." It's a confession, a gift placed at an alter of worship. 

Aziraphale takes his gift gladly. It is Christmas, after all. 

"Home then, my love. Let me get you properly warmed up."

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Globes of Amaranth: Immortal Love  
> Primroses: Eternal Love  
> Red Carnations: Deep Romantic Love
> 
> This boy is NOT subtle. 
> 
> If you notice any grammar/spelling mistakes I do apologise, LibreOffice Writer doesn't have a spellchecker??? for some reason?? I used a spellchecker online but it refused to believe snarky was a real word so I gave up.
> 
> Happy New Year y'all!


End file.
